Prodigal Son
by Diatomaceous
Summary: My version of the story of the prodigal son. Starts "in medias res" (in the middle of things).
1. Chapter 1

"There's the bunch! Get 'em!"

Prodin woke with a jerk and scrambled to his feet with the rest of the scurvy crowd that had been sleeping against the warm bricks of the baths. His momentum was slow as his entire body ached from sleeping on the ground and he was one of the first to be tripped up. Rough hands grabbed him and threw him about as more of the motley crew was hauled in.

It was all a blur of shouted vulgarities and sudden, blinding sunlight as they were shoved and generally beaten out of the dark alleys into the open light of the public square. A large group of merchants were there, pointing out rogues they remembered having snatched items from their stalls. Prodin was suddenly shoved against a wooden canopy post, his hands tied fast together to tether him there like a beast. He was frightened, true, but in a confused delirium of ignorance as to what was happening. It was when they threw the bloodied leader of the band to the ground nearby and, with little more than a vulgar oath about his thieving ways, cut off his hands at the wrists with the same blade used to butcher chickens that Prodin understood what was happening.

Uncomprehending fear gave easy way to unholy terror as he watched blood gush from the man's' wounds as he was dragged out of sight. Another undesirable was forced onto the scene by a hand clutched cruelly in his hair. A horsemaster set to flaying him, lashing at the man until the single red stripe of the whip could not be discerned against raw flesh any longer. Then, Prodin felt his own clothes torn from his back and a panic choked him, making him lose control of his water, the hot fluid streaming down his leg in a stinking miasma. Meanwhile, a woman was stoned by the indignant crowd.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Prodin clutched at the wood post, splinters stinging his bare skin. He desperately desired that all would dissolve into just another nightmare, the familiar hanging round his bed shifting into focus as Egypt's soft cajoling eased him out of whatever hellish place his mind had gone to in the hours of the night. Instead, he felt a soggy mass hit him hard upside the head.

Having no control, he began to sob like a child.

"Here," he heard a raucous voice proclaim, "this un's mussed hisself and is cryin' for his momma! Let's make sure she recognizes 'im, hey?"

Nearby, handfuls were scooped out of a stye and heaved at his nakedness. Offal was smeared on his face, in his eyes and mouth. He choked and wretched, his body going slack against his bonds. Someone cut the rope at his wrists and he was hauled bodily to be dumped among the filth of a pen of squealing pigs. Then there was screaming pain as he was held down and a brand burned into his flesh just below his left ear.

"There, now you have the mark of the animal you are!"


	2. Chapter 2

Hours later, Prodin lay shivering in a corner of the pig pen. Night had come at some point and the dawn was arriving again, a thin line of light on the horizon. The gruesome crowd had long since dispersed and the only sounds were those of the swine snuffling about, waiting for an early breakfast.

His entire world was made of pain. It felt as though the entire left side from the crown of his head to his shoulder were on fire and the hot brand not only pressed it's mark but seared unrelentingly over an entire area.

Finding the water trough near him, Prodin tried to take a desperate drink to clear his mouth, but the crust on his hands instantly fouled the already slimey, silty water. He wretched bile and folded into a miserable huddle once more but was roused a few moments later by a sloshing, the sound of a voice and pigs grunting, chewing and smacking. Despite the radiant pain that slogged his senses, he pushed among the pigs and grabbed at the contents of the trough. He was able to swallow a few bites of unidentifiable scraps before being and hauled out from among the animals and doused with bucketfuls of freezing water.

Prodin soon found himself amongst a pack of wailing humanity in a caged wooden cart headed out of the city. He huddled in a corner, sick from pain and cold, and waited his fate.

The trundling cart finally stopped in a barren bit of landscape. The gate was opened and an unwary occupant was jerked out and flung to the ground. The rolling prison was resecured and the went on its way, leaving an undesirable kneeling in the dust to make his own way.

And so it went.

When the cart had left it's human detritus out of site over the horizon, it would stop and disgorge another occupant, sometimes beating them down so that they did not attempt to follow the miserable vehicle.

Prodin's turn came soon enough. He was pulled from the rough cage and cast upon the ground, a bit of sack-cloth thrown at him to cover his nakedness. As he showed no compulsion to resist the expulsion, the guard only gave him one cracking blow in the ribs for good measure and hailed the driver to move on.

The rough garment did nothing to assuage the chill that had seeped into the core of him; even the brand burned with a kind of searing coldness. He might have just stayed, as others, in the spot he was dropped, but Prodin knew where he was. Stumbling to his feet, he shambled toward a nearby rise and, coming to its summit, could see in the hazy distance a short wall that marked the first of his father's land.


End file.
